Fauldon's Dream and the Karier of the Task

An orange sickle-feather perched upon the square window pane, through which light of the most peculiar shade shone. Mr Fauldon stirred to the bird’s pecking as it knocked against the colorful mosaic. He hadn’t noticed it before for the shadow cast over the town felt as close to night as he’d come to know.

So he stood and stretched out his hands and legs, bending backward then forward then sideward before unfolding the sack of Oblique within his coat.

He also saw the sash made for him in such craftsmanship he’d never seen before. He wondered as to what would come of Nobaph since his enlightenment. Also of Beelstow and whether the man would ever overcome Lerchah. He wondered of Nomad and if the traveler had found what he sought in Mauhg.

The knocking came again. He saw the sickle-feather flutter off in an instant—the door to the dwelling bursting open.

“Hey, Mr Mister!” came Kish’s childish voice as she beamed to the sight of him being awake. “Knowy told me to wake you,” she added with a blush, turning then to escape her shyness.

Mr Fauldon watched as sir Knowington stepped through the doorway in her absence. “Shall we proceed?” the man said (as though it definitely had not been said before).

“Yes, I do believe the Obliquor has settled in,” Mr Fauldon replied, feeling his senses jitter to the rejuvenation. “And to where are we headed, oh ’mysterious’ one?”

“Through the Shadow Bean Hills, Mr Fauldon, and to the Wiliswall.”

“The Wiliswall?” Mr Fauldon could not believe his ears. Ever since he’d first seen and second asked, it had always been an aspiration to venture beyond to that which was held secret on the other side. “But why the Wiliswall?”

“Come, we best bid the townsfolk farewell and be on our way.”

“Hold on, hasty sir, how is it you know to where he went?” Mr Fauldon asked.

Sir Knowington held an expression of one who simply always knew (as though it had slipped his mind that Mr Fauldon knew not). “I will tell you more as we get moving. Delay is the twin of procrastination, and we have a task to do.”

Most of the townsfolk were already scattered about the old planks, greeting, mingling, and fiddling about the days of old and what they might do to ready themselves for Mr Fauldon’s return. Some even speculated about the disaster coming should the Overlap continue. Already did the sky look more bleak, even with the plethora of hues, shades, and veins that flowed like vines about a lattice. For a moment, Mr Fauldon couldn’t help but to look into the sky—seeing the splendor and taking it in again. It felt like he’d almost forgot how bizarre every feat of this imaginative realm was.

How real it felt. How lively it felt.

How real it was.

“It draws nigh,” Brewer said amidst the crowd gathered. “We need that stone, if you don’t mind, sir Karier. We look forward to welcoming you back.”

Sir Knowington wasn’t one for prolonged farewells, as he already had nudged Mr Fauldon that they continue swen. Glancing back over his shoulder, Mr Fauldon almost caught a glimmer of discomfort coming from the people in Threshold.

“Why is that?” he turned to sir Knowington.

“Mister!” came the little voice he cherished as Kish ran out from the crowd and leapt into his embrace once more. “Don’t worry, I believe in you,” she said, pushing away and running back to her mother.

Sir Knowington showed a smile to the little girl’s gesture. “It’s because,” he then replied to Mr Fauldon, “they are already suffering. The Lighthouse gives light and growth to the fields they grow, and with it as such… well, the less light there is, the more critters there are. And as builders of the great Lighthouse, they know all too well what the Overlap is capable of doing, which is why its best we hurry along.”

The urgency was becoming more and more real to him. One might ask then why he was given a night to sleep, but it mustn’t be forgotten the realm they are in—nights hardly existed. Rather, just when the turn of the light was blotted by the plate rotating about it, there in lay only a brief moment of darker shadow. So in reality, Mr Fauldon had not slept long at all—only rested. Had it not been for the Obliquor given to him by Beelstow, surely he would be incapable of the journey ahead. For in every crevice of his body, exhaustion sought to seep in and lay hold of his conscious.

And so did the presence of the small town steadily grow fainting behind them with new terrain befalling Mr Fauldon’s gaze. He looked forward to the many hills laden with moss and speckles of humps (resembling much of potato farms in the regions of a more known world but less known places). The mounds sprouted the hills as though warts and to each clang vines woven in pair and bearing many seeds of brown and black. According to Brewer (whom he’d actually spoken a great deal to), the brown seed was a sweet nectar that could be cooked and savored, but the black seed (or rather the Black Shadow Bean, as they called them) was far more tart and, if cooked, would poison flavor and dry up any seasoning. It was, however, said to him to be good for the wound, as it dried out the exposed skin and soaked up what toxins there may be.

All this only adding to the intrigue that a whole town might build up for itself a reputation just off a simple bean. Though, to the townspeople, it was no simple bean.

The aroma held thick in the air as though a coffee-bean farm whilst the two pressed through and over and around the hills. Mr Fauldon admired the many paths formed by the small trickling trails of mucky water—if it were water at all. Upon closer look, he noticed it to be the same soil as what made the hills, only softer and more saturated, making it slip and fold over itself until forming miniature flows. It seemed as though the means of self-sustained irrigation.

“Sir Knowington,” Mr Fauldon finally spoke out, his mind being filled with new thoughts and even more questions, “I wonder if we will be able to recover this stone…”

The man in bright suit had took notice of Mr Fauldon’s doubt and discomfort even before the thoughts had come to him and just before the words had been spoken (not that he could read minds, only that he would have known sooner had the smell of caffeine not been so steep).

“And to you I would answer,” said he calmly and while yet progressing, “that, whether or not we do, it will not be without consequence. The first being that the Overlap draws nearer and has begun to reopen the old scars of those who here have dwelled for a very long time. Second, that with you not having it, opinions have swayed in doubt of the lord Keyno’s judgement and my selection. Though you may not realize it, many are losing trust in Keyno with the increasing fault-lines in reality.

“Thirdly: with this imbalance already growing alongside time, not having the stone is only securing the suspicion and assumption that not all is well. In a land of such bizarre and imaginatude, you must understand the amount of fear this brings. That stone—your Task—has never meant more than now, even though it is just like all those before it. What you do now is not only affecting the task of the stone, but of people’s opinion of it. You are the Karier, sir, and though you may doubt recovering something that has slipped from this realm, I do believe you have no right to suppose that all hope is lost. Especially since, in essence, you are the carrier of that hope.”

The ever-so-peculiar guide came to a stop and turned back to Mr Fauldon with eyes of sincerity. The man spoke factually and honest of Mr Fauldon’s predicament. He knew Mr Fauldon felt weighed of responsibility. He understood what Mr Fauldon felt inside.

“Come—you see that?” sir Knowington said to him, pointing to the massive structure towering above them and stretching on in either direction. “The Wiliswall, and built that none should cross.”

“Wait, none should cross? Then how are we to cross it? And why is it that none should cross? It seems to me the mainland is intent on separating itself. First the river Floweth, then Rys’ Springs, and now the Wiliswall?”

“So many questions,” replied sir Knowington, a palm lifted so as to hush the conversation. Something moved amidst the moss and bushes. As the Shadow Bean Hills drew closer to the Wiliswall, so did the terrain enrich. Small and large, wide and skinny, thick and coarse—the nature grew more repulsing of ease.

Mr Fauldon only caught a glimpse of what pursued them in the thickery. “What is that?” he whispered to sir Knowington as he crouched low, a break of sweat against his brow.

“That,” said sir Knowington as he eased his position, “is our guide.”